


The Velvet Theater

by itsOblivious



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blood and Violence, Drug Use, Forced Masturbation, Gore, M/M, Minor Character Death, RNM Mini Bang 2020, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Shotacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsOblivious/pseuds/itsOblivious
Summary: The Citadel of Ricks has a few chosen elite, the Ricks and their Mortys with money and influence spanning across the multiverse; it’s only fitting that they populate some of the Citadel’s most infamous underground clubs, using their impact to experience their darkest fantasies. One Rick finds himself at the mercy of a quietly cruel Morty who seems to run the grisly Velvet Theater, an underground sex club where Ricks and Mortys are pitted against each other to try to stay alive under the audience of dozens of their more affluent peers.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Kudos: 10
Collections: RaM Mini Bang 2020





	The Velvet Theater

**Author's Note:**

> My little contribution to the RNM Mini Bang!
> 
> The beautiful poster piece was done by the lovely [KowaiSnail](https://twitter.com/KowaiSnail)
> 
> It was such a pleasure participating in this event and I am BEYOND blessed to help inspire Kowai to create such a beautiful piece.

Eighty seven seconds.

Rick had been holding eye contact with some other Rick’s unattended Morty for a full eighty seven awkward, uninterrupted seconds before he skips off as if nothing had happened. He counted every second he was there, because there was nothing else to do.

 _What the fuck is wrong with those kids,_ he thinks, sneering at the boy’s back, and trying to again piece together the string of events that landed him here, though try as he might, the only memory he can dredge up is his walk to the store a few days ago. 

_Days ago…? Wait, did I already make it to the store?_

He thinks hard, squinting at the floor as if it would help stir up the right timeline, but the smooth, grey concrete floors and walls are proving to be a terrible distraction from the dozens of cold eyes and frigid fingers that have been demanding his attention for the last few hours. There is no use in trying to enjoy these stray thoughts for long, as his head was snatched forwards by another Rick who has come along to flash a few lights in his eyes, making snide comments about his ‘organic’ eyes. He takes the time to press his icy digits into his eyelids, a gentle threat to pop them out of their sockets accompanying the pressure.

“W-we can’t use something this soft, Morty c’mon,” He says as if it’s his fault he’s wasted his time. The Morty by his side giggled and kicked him impishly before rushing back behind his grandfather. He groaned behind his gag and tried to throw a glare their way, but they had moved on, replaced by a pair of Ricks who only sneered at the scars that crossed sloppy patterns across his figure, loudly gossiping as they passed. 

“I don’t want- I can’t have something that ugly, w-what would my patrons think!” One says with a sneer, throwing a scarf over his shoulder dramatically. They pass by quickly, moving on to the next person and out of his line of sight, and he tries to keep his head down low to avoid the next asshole that wants to take a look at him. He spots polished shoes and the clean stretch of black trousers, and he prepares himself for more cold hands, but instead the seconds stretch on and he is left untouched except for curious eyes that he can feel pinned on him. _This better not be another weird ass Morty_. The dizzying shuffle of people around him continues on, and the inaction convinces him to lift his gaze to get a look at his spectator, meeting him eye to familiar eye. 

The man before him carries the air of a butler that was unbecoming of a Rick, his stoic expression never faltering as he continues to gaze at him. Part of him wants to insult the man in front of him with a glare, but the unflinching, unnerving stare back at him squashes that thought the longer they hold gazes, and his eyes eventually fall back to the ground, hoping that breaking eye contact will send him on his way instead. 

It works, and moments later the man is on his way, melting back into the stream of the crowd, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. This endless feed of faces is turning his ego to slush, and he almost prefers the holding cell from hours before, when he was stuffed into a narrow room with hundreds of other Ricks and Mortys, stripped to their skin and arms bound behind their backs with pinching black tape. It had to be days that they were held there staring at dull walls and filthy floors as their howls fell on deaf ears. The Mortys took it the hardest, the chaotic smell turning their stomachs inside out as their Ricks battled between soothing their panicked grandson and cursing his existence for making it worse. They all eventually lost their battles with their bodies, nausea slipping through everyone as the hours ticked on.

It wasn't until a small portion of them started dropping like flies, fainting and dying so tightly packed that they never hit the floor, that anyone came back for them. A few armed Ricks slipped into the room, wasting no time barking orders and herding the exhausted crowd through the door, where they were split off into smaller groups indiscriminately, ripping pairs of Ricks from their Mortys and gunning down anyone who attempted to stop them. All of _that_ is what led him here; finally washed clean of the grime, lined against a wall and judged under harsh lights by Ricks and Mortys who seemed uninterested in whatever it is he seems to be offering. 

He sighs and switches his gaze from the floor to another miserable Rick who has spent all his energy thrashing at every touch as he now lays almost defeated kneeling on the floor. The fight is leaving his body in exhausted puffs as a scantily clad Morty approaches him, his crude nurse uniform practically a mockery to the suffering around him. From this angle, Rick can’t really make out what the nurse Morty is doing, but the process is over quickly and the Rick is pulled to his feet and dragged out of the room. 

Cautious and weary, he watches them go, wondering if he will meet a similar fate when the Morty turns on his heel and makes a beeline in his direction, dropping Rick’s heart into his ass with his well timed intuition as he tries to take a meager step backwards, escaping to nowhere when he backs into a guard. With a quickness he wasn’t expecting, the Morty snaps him up by his ear, pushing a crude needle through the cartilage. His yelp is swallowed behind the gag and he struggles against his grip while Morty haphazardly replaces the needle with what Rick is assuming is a tag or a tracker, and the cool, dense metal is refreshing around his pulsing wound. His stomach lurches in revolt, the days of hunger rolling into nausea with the prick of the needle and the ooze of bile that inched up his throat has him coughing to ease the burn. Ignorant of his struggle, one of the Ricks shoved him forward, rushing him through a series of doors and hallways before finally leaving him alone in a room just as cold and empty as he felt.

It would have been nice to enjoy a moment of privacy, but like all things lately, that illusion of comfort is shattered with the arrival of another scantily clad nurse Morty. He slips through the door hauling a medical cart with him, metal tools and empty syringes clicking together as he rolls the cart over, an overly buff guard Rick close on his heels. He never looks his way, only stands to watch at the door just in case Rick decides to try something, despite being bound and gagged and sleepless, despite his shaking limbs and hollow stare. The Morty wastes no time snapping on gloves and pulling the gag from Rick’s teeth, replacing it with a tongue depressor and then digging through the drawer of the cart, leaving the cheap wood pressed painfully close to his tonsils, reigniting his need to gag. Morty finds what he needs, a flashlight, and takes another peek at his throat and hums neutrally before flashing the light in his eyes.

Morty takes a syringe and begins to pull in some unknown liquid from a vial, and speaks up, “T-this is just a short medical exam-examination, to get you feeling a l-little better, ok?”

The softness in his voice strikes him and he nods dumbly. The Morty continues, “I’m gonna ask you a few questions to confirm what we have on-on-on file, then we’ll be on our way.” 

He approaches with the syringe, not bothering to sanitize a spot of skin when he jabs him with the needle, plunging whatever toxic mix he wanted under his skin. The effects are instant when his quaking stomach settles and his tense muscles finally relax. Words start to tumble out of his mouth before he has time to think about them.

“And then what?” He asks, catching Morty’s expressionless gaze peering at him above his white mask, “W-what’s- what am I doing here?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, pricking him with another needle, “Y-you’ve been on the Citadel for just over three months now, correct?”

“I guess?” He wasn’t sure, never the type to keep track of those sorts of things. Morty mutters ‘good enough’ before moving on.

“And you relocated from dimension TC-99 after a string of run-ins with the Galactic Federation?” he asks, pushing more drugs through the needle, bitter liquid massaging narcotic fingers through his flesh, softening his tight muscles. He doesn't realize how tensely his shoulders are crowding his neck until they finally drop, but as the tension leaves his shoulders and back, the uneasy feeling remains in his guts.

It’s to be expected to be heavily tracked on the Citadel, especially with how volatile Ricks can be; it's the easiest way to keep track of rotten eggs, eliminating any deviations from the perfect Rick society. Despite this, he feels a little paranoid at the extent of knowledge the nurse seems to know, which means there's a lot more people who know even more about him than this Morty does. _God damn,_ he thinks, _I should have stayed on Earth_. At least he was good at evading detection there like the smartest rat in the lab, slipping past police and out of jail before they ever knew what’s up. The Galactic Federation really tested his limits, but really only proved that space jailbreak is basically the same as Earth jailbreak, it just uses a different set of tools and skills. 

The nurse regards him patiently, taking the time to adjust his too-short dress to better cover his ass. Rick watches, holding his response until he’s done and finally mumbles a quick, “R-right.”

“And you haven’t claimed an address or official residence?” His voice remains free of judgment, but Rick still feels wounded by the question, his sensitivity to his lifelong predicament a touchy subject. When he only nods in response, Morty clears his throat.

“Uh, s-sorry, I need a-a-a verbal answer.”

“Yes, right, I’m a fucking bum, ok,” he spits out, earning an eye roll from the boy in front of him. Morty types a few things into a tablet before returning with another empty syringe in one hand and a thick rubber tourniquet in the other. This has the guard springing to action, closing the gap between the door and Rick in a few giant steps. The black tape binding his arms is cut and peeled away, the blade glossing over papery, grey skin carelessly, and the adhesive unforgiving as it pulls more than a few hairs free. The guard holds one arm in a vice grip as the nurse pops up on his other side, his gentle fingers a harsh whiplash to his partners hold as they dance across his skin to pull the rubber band around his upper arm.

Morty continues, tying the band around Rick’s arm tight, “Your file says you have zero cybernetic enhancements or prosthetics, including internal organs, ocular, or auditory, is that correct?” 

“…T-that's right,” Rick looks away, feeling more insult behind Morty’s placid voice.

“Mmhmm,” Morty murmurs as he taps out a vein in Rick’s forearm, concentration halting his questions for a moment. Rick watches Morty’s face, taking in his focused scanning and the small twitch of a smile when he finds the blue beacon of his vein. The swiftness and precision surprise him again when the kid slips the needle in perfectly the first time, blood pulling into the vacuum of the vial. Once he is done, he barely applies pressure to the wound and places the bottle on the cart, posing his final question.

“Ok, and finally, you still don’t claim a Morty, correct? It says you came to the Citadel without one, and you never registered to pair with a Morty?” 

The question was unexpected and sends him straight into a wall of foggy memories of too-trusting brown eyes and greasy hair, edged with an emotion too painful to explore, especially right now. There _was_ a Morty he wanted to call his own, but that was a story cut short too soon, so he shuffles around the answer, fearful that his voice will crack if he speaks. Cold metal slips around his wrists, pulling them together behind his back and the nurse and guard both pin him with expectant stares.

“Y-yeah…” His voice does crack, and he tries not to care.

Pulling off the gloves and disregarding the stutter, Morty types a few more notes into his tablet and nods, “Ok, great, that’s it!” he says, voice syrupy sweet. The guard then grabs him roughly and pushes him forwards to the door. Both nurse and guard chuckle when Rick's noodle-like legs fail him, sending him sprawling on the floor. Calloused hands yank him to his feet and practically drag him through the hall, past more guards and nurses hustling through doors, past more Ricks and Mortys like him who struggled to walk a straight line behind their captors.

Static darkness tinges his vision on and off until he is positive he has blacked out completely when after opening his eyes to another strange room, the barely-there foam of the cot below him the softest touch he’s felt since he was captured. It's more grey ceilings and grey floors boxed by three grey chain link fences, and a warbling glass-like barrier as the fourth, its high pitched buzz serving as an electric warning. Peering out of the fence he can see the expanse of cages on all sides, the entrance facing another long endless row of cages across a narrow corridor. Flanked on his left and right, and endlessly on in each direction are the mirrored anguished faces of Ricks; Past the glass barrier and across the hall are the Mortys, shrunken against their beds and into corners, shied far away from the invisible wall. 

And other than the few sniffles and snores, the entire hall was silent. 

Cutting through that silence is a dance of footsteps approaching him, pulling him from his casual exploration of the hushed cell block. These footsteps descend upon his thin confinement, until a Morty steps into view, with a milky white button down a striking complement to the wide honey gaze that oozed over his shivering frame, eyes infused with such curiosity he could practically feel their touch. Following behind him is a familiar looking Rick, the butler looking creep from earlier, dressed similarly with a dazzling white button down and crisp black trousers. There is a dryness attached to his businesslike posture that just rubs him the wrong way, especially when he checks his watch with a sharp flick of his wrist as if he has much better places to be.

Jumbled speech hits his ears when the Morty speaks, pointing a dainty finger and only briefly sliding his eyes off of him to glance at the Rick at his side. He’s beginning to think the concoction of drugs may have damaged some part of his brain when the Rick speaks up, hushed tones barely registering amongst the sudden clamor of his heartbeat.

“Welcome, TC-99, to the Velvet Theater,” he says, offering a benign grin, “We wanted to welcome you personally, and wish you luck.”

“L-Luck wit-”

“Shh!” He is interrupted by a sharp hiss, Morty gesturing him to be quiet with a finger pressed tightly to his lips, a wild spark flashing in his eyes.

“There are only a few rules here in your dorm, the first of which,” Rick nods to Morty, “Is to keep the volume down, and don’t be rude and interrupt. Any uproar or discourse in your dorm will be met with termination from the cast.”

The golden eyed boy groans in a pitch too deep to truly come from his small frame when he murmurs, “And we don't want you to leave too soon hmm?” TC-99 glances between the pair who shared a look that spoke volumes in a language he certainly wasn't privy to. He shivers hard enough to wrack his whole frame, his anxious energy fighting to get out with nowhere to go. 

“Please, no speaking to the guards, it causes disruption, and they can't answer you anyways. They've had a few body mods if you catch my drift,” He says with a smirk, and Morty has his tongue out, playful fingers snipping the air like scissors, “Your food will be provided on a schedule, and you’re welcome to do as you please in your dorm when you’re not at your performances, as long as you're quiet. Participation in the theater is required; refusal ends in termination. Your role in the cast has been assigned as a competitor.” He seems to rush through the last few sentences, pausing to check his watch as he continues.

“We should wrap this up. Your role here is basically to watch an erotic performance on stage, and you’ll need to finish before your competitor. Now, we’ve got a few other things to attend to, so if you don't mind,” he says this with a surprisingly gracious bow to someone who was basically a fish in a barrel. 

The confusion tries to filter out of TC- 99’s mouth after the barrage of information, but ends with a huff, his teeth clicking shut with the force of his will to swallow his curiosity, deciding not to test the rule of silence. Morty eyes him like the fresh meat he is, almost goading him to speak with his too-bright smile. He waves playfully as his Rick pulls him away with a gentle tug of his sleeve into a portal, and Rick has again left alone with a blizzard of thoughts and questions. 

Dumbstruck and fighting back the creep of a headache that pulsed around his swirling thoughts, he slowly sank into the sliver of foam that is his mattress and attempted to put together a plan for himself. The barrier between his coffin-like dorm and the next was only a chain-link fence, though he is sure they're not as flimsy as they appear, and the door that gives off a low hum, most likely thrumming with electricity. Pinching off a piece of foam, he tests the barrier by tossing it to the gap, a wise choice since the foam burned upon impact. He takes a deep frustrated breath through his nose, curling his lip at the geriatric scent that sours his lungs and lets it out with a sigh.

The logical part of him, the cynical, probing, always right part of him knew that this was explicitly a cage built to contain him and every iteration of himself to the end of time. Escape from here is almost impossible. 

Thinking back to what the Rick said, ‘cast,’ ‘erotic performance,’ ‘competitor,’ and he has trouble picturing what he is in for. Was this some sort of sex club? A mafia thing? He decides to try to voice his questions and makes his way to one side of his cell to sit along the fence where a neighboring Rick is laying out across the concrete in his cell, vacant stare fixed on the ceiling. In an attempt to get his attention, he opens his mouth to speak before remembering the rule of silence and instead discreetly clears his throat. When he gets not so much as a twitch from his neighbor, he tries again, a little louder, with a kick to the fence to help. Across the hall, he catches a Morty roll his eyes at his attempts.

He decides to take a chance and whispers, “Uh...hey?”

Behind him, he hears a shush from his other neighbor, who has sat up from his cot to fix him with a glare, “H-how about you shut the fuck up.”

“Can you help me? I-I mean, can you explain what's going on?” He asks, his whisper rising as he closes the gap to the other side of his cell, desperate for some answers despite the harsh tone and the irritated glare his neighbor fixed him with.

“Keep your voice down, fuck. Velvet already explained it, man, y-you’re smart, you’ll figure it out,” he says dismissively, prepared to ignore the rest of the conversation by turning his back to him, but Rick speaks again, his whisper more appropriate. 

“W-what is my part in this? What does he mean finish before your competitor,” he asks.

“What are you, a fuck- a fucking toddler? What do you think he means man y-y-you gotta blow your load after watching some fucked up shit on that stage” he spits out, frustrated by his cluelessness as his voice climbs a pitch too high, earning a quick ‘shush’ from another Rick nearby.

“Oh...ohhhh,” he whispers, the realization is slow coming and even embarrassing himself for not realizing it earlier.

“Yeah, oh,” he rolls his eyes “And they're gonna pump you f-full of some good drugs to make you like it.”

“Wh-what kind of fucked up shit?” His mind is already racing to the gutter, dredging up a backlog of bad porn mingled with bad memories pulled from a tumultuous life on the streets.

“You have no fucking idea,” a whisper is heard across the gap of a hall from the Morty directly across from his neighbor, who is kneeling by the invisible wall on his end. He had a familiar mop of dirty hair that struck something deep in Rick’s heart.

“They-they fucking stuffed a Morty with f-f-firecrackers and-”

“No one wants to hear it, Morty! Nobody wants to hear any of this, ok, if you want to leave, then forfeit your round.”

“I don't want to die here, Rick...” Morty whispers, barely audible, and there is heavy silence for a moment, “I’m just trying to answer his questions, o-ok? You don’t want to...”

Interrupting their conversation is a series of small portals open on the ceiling in each cell, dropping what Rick is assuming is their dinner rations contained in metal bottles that made an awful clatter as they hit the floor, echoing down the hall and startling many from their dazed naps. The containers are nondescript, their metal casing making it impossible to discern its contents, and Rick opens the bottle and takes a cautionary sniff, fully expecting something unpleasant. Instead, there is the barest scent of honeysuckle almost entirely masked by the twang of the metal casing. Around him, some neighbors are lazily sipping, while others have already consumed their portion and retreated back to their cots. He takes a cautious sip, letting the pasty liquid flow into his mouth, insipid with only floral undertones of the scent giving it any flavor. It was gritty, and uncomfortable to consume, but since he can't recall his last meal, he downs it in a few gulps. 

He wants to ask his neighbor more questions, but the Rick has once again turned his back to him on his cot, so he looks to the Morty, who is toying with the bottle in his hands, rolling it in his palms. When he meets his eyes, Morty speaks up again, “It's quiet hours now… you may want to go to sleep soon. If you’re lucky, you won’t go in tomorrow.” 

Morty retreats to the shadows of his cell and Rick decides to do the same. His limbs are extra heavy by the time he settles into his bed, and he is surprised at how fast the exhaustion has closed in on him. _The bottles..._ he thinks, bleary eyes closing as he embraces the feeling. There are warning bells, telling him he shouldn't be ok with this, that he hasn't had the chance to process anything yet, but he is being pulled under too fast and he feels himself plunge into sleep. 

Except the sleep does not snuff out his anxiety and his dreams have him sprinting through early memories of Earth, a mashup of every run-in with the police, swirled with every mad dash for his life. It’s never cohesive until it is, and his subconscious suddenly focuses on one particular memory of blonde hair and delighted squeals, bare feet running across the hot sand, and the blissful erasure of his panic. He wants to stay here, running on the beach with his last tie to earth, but Diane’s sun kissed skin burns down, giving way to angry sores and angry eyes. Too inept and too unprepared to help her he kept running, straight into the streets of The Citadel, and straight into some Morty, finally halting his marathon. He is shoved back by the boy’s Rick, faceless and pissed off and shouting at him, drawing a crowd of yellow shirts and white lab coats whose faceless glares have him shrinking away, backing into the glass doors of a convenience store. 

He slips inside, blurry eyes blinking in the brightness of the store, revealing the scene at the register where a scruffy looking Morty was pinned between the particle board counter and the end of a Rick police officer's baton shoved into his belly. The cashier Rick behind the counter regarded nothing and no one as he flipped through his magazine, leaned casually against the wall of cigarettes.

The desperation that spills down Morty’s face strikes him when they make eye contact and he points a trembling finger at him, “T-thats him! Thats m-m-my Rick!” 

Both of the officers slid their glares his way before slowly turning to face him, one of them breaking away to approach him and speak, “Is this true, _sir_?” the last word hissed through resentful teeth. The hand on his weapon dared him to agree with the offending delinquent still pinned to the counter, fingers itching for conflict. Against his better judgement he decided to accept that dare.

“Ah, fuck yeah, you know how Mortys get when they're mad,” he didn’t actually, “Little shit, ran aw- ran off again hah,” he ends with an unconvincing laugh, holding his arm out to the Morty, without removing his gaze from the officer in front of him, “C-c’mon Morty.”

“Is that so,” he says unimpressed, looking to his partner for his next step. The Rick that has Morty held down gives a few more jabs of his baton before letting him run to Rick, turning his attention to the man behind the counter, “Sir would you still like to press charges?”

The cashier never took his eyes off the page as he waved his hand dismissively, “If his Rick is here then just get the fuck out of my store,” he peeked up at the officer before glancing to the Morty, then himself, where his gaze lingered half a beat longer. The cashier sniffed and went back to his reading material and continued, “he’s been stinkin’ up my store for-for like an hour, just get him out,” he mumbles about needing some privacy and the officers barely contain their sigh of a good chase lost. They huff as they bid their goodbyes to the cashier, shoving them out the door and directly into the pavement. Rick shouts a few insults at the officers, all of them falling on deaf ears as they walk away laughing. A dirty hand reached out to help him up silently and he murmured his thanks. 

“C’mon, l-lets get out of here,” he says, rolling his eyes at the cops and pulling the boy closer, still playing up the act. “Maybe we should stick together for a little while,” he continues as he yanks him into an alleyway, out of the regular foot traffic and away from any prying eyes, breathing a sigh of relief once they’re covered by the shadows. 

“T-t-that cashier was-was such a dick,” the Morty mumbles as he shuffles alongside him, trying to make small talk with the guy who spared him from a night in jail, or worse. Rick only grunts in response and removes his arm from the boy, giving him a quick lookover. Filthy and bruised from head to toe, the kid looks like he's had his share of run-ins with the police too, and after spotting the track marks on his arm he can guess why. 

“He can be nice,” he replies, still looking him over, “He lets me loiter around if-if I leave him alone. Y-y-you must have been bothering him.” 

At this mild accusation, the Morty is already throwing up his hands in defense, “H-hey, I-I-I wasn’t! He told me to leave as soon- as soon as I walked in!” His voice climbs a few octaves as he stutters through his explanation, and Ricks not sure if it's Morty’s poor excuses or his own caution around Mortys, but he sure doesn't believe he wasn't causing some sort of trouble.

“Mhmm,” Rick replied, suddenly exhausted with this conversation and this kid. They continue to walk in silence for a few minutes until the scruffy Morty drifts a little closer, their arms barely grazing. They stay walking like that longer than Rick is comfortable with, his skin crawling with the unwanted closeness and he looks down, mouth open to express his distaste. However his words die in his mouth when he sees the kid sheepishly smiling up at him, holding out a box of cigarettes as a sort of peace offering. 

Rick huffs out a laugh, “Uh huh, d-did you steal those?” he asked, an amused smile playing on his lips despite his mild annoyance.

Morty responds, but his voice comes out featureless and robotic and louder than it should be, **“Act one will begin, shortly, please finish placing your bets now.”**

Rick swallows and murmurs a shaky, “W-what?” before he stumbles over his own feet, falling into the sidewalk, and the alley walls around him melt to black. A hypnic jerk of his legs and he is finally roused from the not so comfortable embrace of sleep. Disoriented, he blinks the sleep away, and the room slowly comes into focus as the low murmur of a crowd can be heard. 

Straight ahead, there is a small platform, a stage of sorts made of solid stainless steel with a drain buttoning the middle of the spotless surface. Behind that, seated in a plush purple chair, is the curious Morty who stopped by his cage last night, his slender fingers wrapped loosely around a rocks glass. Whisper soft smile betraying Morty’s amusement with him as he takes in the rest of the room, swirling the neat amber liquid in his glass as a tease to Rick’s parched throat.

Above him, peering from all directions, are the eager faces of a few dozen other Ricks and a handful of Mortys all gathered around the ornate dark wood of the banister, their hushed chatter indiscernible from this distance. They’re dressed as if attending an opera or gala, with most the Ricks are outfitted in sharp, clean suits, and the Mortys on their coattails with complementary blazers and bowties. He looks to his right to see a Morty stripped and strapped to a chair before looking down to see he is similarly bound, arms wrapped at the bicep, and the ankles in thick, worn straps. The Morty beside him steals a glance at him and tenses his jaw, snapping his eyes forward after catching his gaze. 

Framed by velvet and brown curls, he catches the still charmed gaze of the Morty in front of him, sending shivers down his spine. TC-99 wracks his brain, unable to place exactly why or how he has landed himself in a situation like this. Of course, he's pissed off a few people recently, what Rick hasn’t? As far as he knows, he owes no debts, he’s done no wrongs - well, no wrongs that warrant this sort of treatment.

Cutting through his thoughts is the soft blinks of the lights and another announcement over unseen speakers, **“Act one will now begin.”**

There is a flash of green and a portal opens at the center of the stage. Rick sees the Morty beside him sitting up straight, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths with an experienced panic. The audience above begins to crowd closer around the banister as a Morty steps through, this one Miami branded with his bleach blonde hair that he throws over his shoulder and tanned skin stretches seamlessly over a nude form. As soon as the acid green glow of the portal blinks away, he sensually slides his hands through his hair and down his neck, teasing his nipples with one hand as he reaches for his dick with the other. The moment Miami has hands on his own body the Morty beside him snaps into action, gripping his dick and stroking himself quickly, almost abusing himself with the speed of his strokes. TC-99 looks between the Mortys, understanding his role but unable to react, paralyzed under candlelight and high expectations. 

The audience starts to murmur, accusatory glares piercing through him. The velvet Morty catches his eyes as he motions for him to go ahead with a gentle smile, nodding his head towards the Morty vigorously stroking himself. He makes a crude jerking motion with his hand to really drive the point home and Rick can only squint in frustration. He knew what to do here, _christ_ , it’s not like he’s stupid, but with the crowd and the confusion, he’s not really sure if he's willing to perform.

 **“Player TC-99, please participate or face termination,”** came the voice over the speakers. His competition barks out a short laugh as he still desperately tries to fully awaken his half chub, apparently struggling to build his arousal for another Morty. Rick shifts to glare at the kid and unwilling to be made a fool of by a teenager, he slides one hand around his dick, tentatively stroking himself as he turns his attention back to the Miami Morty in front of him, who has paid no mind to the distraction, working his hands over himself in his own bubble of desire. 

When Miami drops to his knees, sinking into a split before leaning back and sliding two fingers inside himself, legs spread in a vulgar exhibition, Rick feels the arousal finally hit him, snaking through his fingers as he times his strokes to Miami’s pace. High pitched whines spill from pouty lips when he catches Rick’s eyes and he rolls his hips to some invisible beat. TC-99, having never seen a Morty act this vulgar before, soon starts to feel that welcome warmth pool in his belly and with one more breathy gasp from the boy on the stage, he is coming almost silently, painting his palm faster than he thought he would have, considering the circumstances. There is a a beat of silence all around, and then the Morty next to him shouts, fat tears welling up in his eyes as he pulls against his restraints and begins to beg as the Miami Morty stops his show mid-stroke and exits without a second glance behind him, walking off stage and into a portal. 

**“The winner is TC-99. Please collect your winnings before the next round.”**

Abandoning his scotch, Velvet Morty makes his way to his hysteric double, who continues to thrash in his chair, raw red skin seeking escape from his restraints as he begs for mercy. Velvet Morty gently pets his face, as if in concern or maybe pity, and reaches for something outside of his sight. Locking eyes with him, Velvet coos into his victim’s ear as he flashes a small dagger, teasing him with a slow drag across the chest, blood beading up like jewels in its wake. He playfully drags and jabs the blade in chaotic patterns while shuddered sobs filled the space between the awed silence of the observers and the torment on stage. 

He doesn't tease him long before the blade finally finds a home, sinking hilt deep into the underside of the wailing boy’s jaw, startling him from the intoxicating stare, the crimson tip of the dagger glaring at him from the Morty’s open mouth. The slow struggle for death has Rick coughing up his disgust, bitter bile splattering on the floor to mingle with the few drops of ripe red, thankful for the reserved applause to drown out the gurgling of his competitor. 

The sound of applause comes and goes as he tries to regain his composure, wiping the bile from his mouth with his shoulder and attempting to sit up straight and spotting the guard heading his direction. He wants to worry when he catches the glint of a needle and a vial full of clear liquid in the guards hands but he can only watch dumbly as the point pricks his arm and releases into his bloodstream. He feels the relief of his restraints before he is consumed by a clinical sort of darkness, the type of deep dreamless sleep where he could have been under for hours or days and when he wakes again, like he never left, he spots the same faceless crowd , mingling around the railing above, greedily watching his every move. 

Still struggling through the fog of his forced coma he examines the empty stage and beyond to the velvet armchair, where his main captor sat chatting casually with two guards, as if he didn’t just murder someone with practiced ease. As his brain starts to catch up he can feel the buzz of panic settle back in, remembering with such lucid clarity the sticky glint of the blade and realizing how close he was to suffering the same fate. His neck pops as he turns to see his competition, another Morty, head leaned back in his chair and mouth open, almost snoring with the depth of his slumber, and blissfully unaware of surroundings. 

The lights dim briefly, followed by the familiar stoic voice over the speakers, **“Act four will begin shortly, please finish placing your bets.”**

An involuntary shudder ran across his spine when the trio behind the stage straightened up, and they brought their hushed conversation to a close. A too-sweet smile is flashed his way when he is caught awake already, and Rick looks away almost embarrassed. While the other Ricks took to the stage, Velvet tiptoed around them to his sleeping twin, slipping one hand over his gaping mouth and the other pinching his nose closed. He patiently waits for him to rouse, eyes sparkling when his victim's heaving chest struggles to suck in air, finally forcing him awake in a panic. Morty let him struggle for a few more moments before releasing him, breathing in his gasps and gulps like the finest wine before the saunters back to his chair. 

The dim blink of the lights causes a release of adrenaline for Rick, his fingers twitching towards his cock in preparation, **“Act four will begin.”**

A portal opens to the center of the stage and another nude Morty is shoved through, stumbling out of the portal and barely catching himself before his face collides with the floor. Hauled up by a guard, he is turned to face the crowd who coos at him from above. Rick notices the faded ink that decorated his face, recognizing the grey tattoo tying him to the Street Locos, the faux badass boys that have been causing more than enough trouble on the streets of the Citadel. If he’s being honest, he really hates those Locos, the slippery little shits liked to make war on turf they couldn't hope to control and dragged every poor, homeless, and drug addicted Rick and Morty into their beef. 

As a former target of theirs, he thinks it’s kind of nice to see one of them put in their place as he is manhandled on the stage, kicking and screaming the whole time. Effortlessly, the guard pins the boy's arms behind his back with one hand as the other unzips his own pants, pulling out his already hard cock, grinding against the Mortys ass teasingly. This seems to set the kid off and he pulls wildly against the hand that held him, thrashing so much that there is a sharp pop as something in Morty’s arm is pulled out of place. After a brutal screech he falls mostly limp, avoiding putting pressure on his arms and twitching from the abuse. The Ricks on the stage take his moment of rest to position him where they wanted him, with one guard positioned at his entrance and the other stroking his dick against the kid’s cheek. The boy groans hoarsely and tries to angle his face away to no avail, sneering all the while, and the guard pulls him by his hair, forcing his lips against the head that is already leaking precum and, _fuck_ , Rick is hard watching that brat struggle. He swallows thickly and reaches down to stroke himself as he watches the assault on the stage. 

There is no warning, or preparation for that matter, as the guards force themselves inside the boy from both ends, the lack of lube making both Rick and his competition wince but otherwise drawing excited gasps from the crowd above. The boy is spit roasted, toes barely touching the ground and almost entirely supported by the cocks that speared him and the one hand holding his dislocated arms, and he is practically seizing with the force of this thrashing to get away. Despite his contempt for the boy, he can't bring himself to continue stroking himself, the earlier tinge of arousal dying out at the muffled howls coming from the stage. Rick actually steals a glance at his competition and is surprised to find him looking back at him, mirroring his alarmed expression, with frightened eyes that are begging for help. 

**“TC-99 and G-4773, please participate or face termination.”** _Fuck, fuck_ , he snaps his view back to the stage where he spots the fresh blood dripping down the Morty’s thighs and he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and wraps his fingers around his dick again, reminding himself vividly of his fate -an instant and gruesome death- if he doesn’t continue. He steals a glance at the velvet chair to discover it empty, but he doesn't think much of it, too wrapped up in trying to get his dick to cooperate. 

The minutes drag on and the assault continues on stage and the boy is not nearly as lucid and rowdy as before, making the low groans of the guards that much louder. The guard that is hilt deep in the Morty’s throat cums first, holding his head down to choke on it until he is done and satisfied, pulling him off his cock by the hair to admire the messy face before him. Whatever is coughed up is pushed back onto his tongue with rough fingers and the guard behind him continues his brutal pace. As much as Rick wants this to be over, he is struggling to cum, and it looks like his competition is too. Just as Rick is wondering how long this could last, he feels nimble fingers slide across his shoulder and down his chest, and there is a voice in his ear, whispering low and quick.

“You better hurry.”

Velvet lets his fingertips linger across his chest before he is strolling away to the other Morty, but Rick’s head is swarming and all he can focus on is the hot stretch of skin where those fingers once grazed and he feels that blessed warmth pooling in his gut again. He circles his head with a practiced swipe of the thumb and is once again surprised when he sputters out an orgasm, weak and practically ruined by the low whines from the stage. 

**“The winner is TC-99, please collect your winnings before the next round.”** Immediately following the announcement there is a chorus of popping bones and Rick dares to glance at his competition, whose head is twisted 180 degrees from where it is normally, dying eyes crookedly facing behind him and Velvet stands a few feet away looking absolutely pleased with himself. He hears a whimper he doesn't realize is his own and he switches his gaze to the burly guard who is fast approaching him. He closes his eyes and never even feels the needle’s prick.

After what feels like just a blink, he is awake again, surprised to be greeted by the dark dark ceiling of his dorm instead of the stage. When he sits up he first notices the metal bottle laying sideways on the floor near the fence, having rolled after its fall from the portal. Next he can see, and hear, how everyone is already deep in sleep, the rule of silence not applying to the loud snores some Ricks seemed to exhibit. Finally, he notices one single guard, who silently observes him from the other side of the invisible gate. Once he catches his eyes, the guard nods towards the bottle, deliberately drumming his fingers on his weapon. Unwilling to pick a fight with the man he complies, but not without making a dramatic show of rolling his eyes before he gets up to grab the bottle. He is hoping the guard will leave, but he remains, stoically gripping his baton and pinning him with a dead stare. 

So, without much else to do other than comply he twists open the bottle, cautiously sniffing the liquid before sipping just a little, his whole body shuddering around the gritty texture. He decides to go ahead and chug a good portion of it until he notices the guard start to walk away. He makes a show of pretending to drink the rest until he is sure he isn't being watched anymore and stops, leaving the bottle half-full of the disgusting soup of drugs and grit. Just like the last time he feels those drowsy tendrils snake their way through his system, yet not quite putting him to sleep. It feels like a pleasant high he used to enjoy not long ago actually, and he slides down the cage beside his bed, blinking slowly to clear away the blur that's started to creep around the edges of his vision. 

He’s not sure why he’s putting off sleep, but the way his head swims when he moves reminds him so much of being cross faded across the board and he doesn't want to quite give that up yet. He makes an attempt to stand but his feet only shuffle across the floor, the sound echoing down the hall until it becomes uncomfortable, so he stops. Except when he stops moving, the sound of dragging feet does not. More than an echo, the steps are almost thunderous as they shamble down the hall and he rolls his head to the side, heavy like concrete, and watches through the fences as some shadowy figure shuffles along through the corridor, and right through the barrier he himself certainly couldn't cross. The convincing hallucination hovers over him, featureless besides its human outline, and Rick wonders if maybe he should go ahead and sleep, but it is speaking to him, low and hushed and not entirely English.

He hums his confusion, his question dying in his mouth when he feels cold hands grab his cheeks, prodding at his face until his eyelids are pried open. Unaware he had even shut his eyes, the brightness of the world around him shocks him to alertness and he finds himself eye to frantic, bloodshot eye with a familiar scruffy Morty. 

“Oh! Thank-thank god Rick! I thought you fucking died!” He is shouting, panic edging his tone, despite the relief of seeing Rick awake, and the shrill sound of his voice makes Rick’s head pound as he tries to place where he is and what he’s been doing. Morty is straddling him, though, squeezing his thighs with bony knees and hands shaking as they still grip his face trying to hold his gaze. Rick, already annoyed with the attention and the weight of the boy and needing a narcotic intervention, he tries to peer around Morty’s concerned face still inches from his to try to lay eyes on their stash, but Morty still finds his way into his line of vision. 

“Morty, wh-what the fuck,” he eventually shoves him out of the way and reaches for the bag that is supposed to hold their meager belongings, mostly paraphernalia and their appropriate substances, but finds it out of sight. “W-wheres the shit Morty?” he asks, frustrated. Morty eyes him, blown pupils reflecting his ever present worry, and shifts on his knees.

“T-the Locos, Rick, do-don't you remember? I mean, I guess not, they-they kicked you in the head pretty hard huh...” he trails off, picking at old track marks on his arms.

_Ugh, of course_ , he thinks picking himself up off the ground and searching himself for anything that could be missing, and realizing he had been picked clean, his hidden stash of cash and drugs gone from his person. He rolls his eyes first, then gazes at Morty again. “So whats up with your eyes huh? W-where’d you get your shit?” He normally isn’t this needy for his fix, but something uncanny burrowed under his skin and he craved the blissful ignorance of the drugs. 

“Oh!” He replies, perking up a little and digging in his shoe and pulling out a small baggie with a few various pills and a small colorful paper tab, “I-I took some already, but I saved these for you.” He crawls closer to Rick, taking his hand and pouring out the contents into his palm, all bright eyed and eager to share, forgetting the near death scare from moments ago. The small smile on his face has Rick soft, heart skipping a beat when the boy takes his hand to trade off the pills and paper. 

“D-don’t worry Rick! I’ll find more, b-b-but you take those and I’ll come back with more,” He says before running off, not giving Rick the time to respond or stop him. He rolls the pills in his hand before popping the whole lot dry, not caring to identify the mix he was taking. It proves to be fast acting, whatever it was, because the walls are already heaving and rolling towards him, and he can't help but mirror their deep breaths, encouraging the walls to squeeze in closer. He is standing but never recalls getting up, and he reaches out to hold the gasping walls around him, but the floor slides under his heels and he is falling face first into the pavement.

However instead of hitting unforgiving concrete and blacking out, he is violently awakened when he collides with the immaculate tiled floors. He wheezes and struggles to regain control of his diaphragm when he spots the boots of the guard that dropped him right before he picks him back up, throwing him over his shoulder and ignoring his struggle to breathe. Either the walk is short or he passes out again, but soon he is dropped roughly into the familiar chair and his limbs strapped down with quick precision. He rolls his head to the side to see his competition, a Rick who looks somehow more miserable than he is with two black eyes and a broken nose that dribbles blood down his lips. He is muttering to himself as he stares at his lap, seemingly unaware of where he is at or what he is in for, or choosing to ignore the scene around him.

**“Act five will begin shortly, please finish placing your bets.”** His skin crawls at the announcement, ending with an unhelpful twitch of his dick. Glancing at Velvet, he finds his eyes already on him, observing him like prey, only leaving him to peer at the portal that has opened to the center of the stage. This time it’s a girl who stumbles out, same brown hair and eyes as any standard Morty and it's a little slow to dawn on him that this must be a Morticia. Unable to stop himself, he openly gawks, having never actually seen a Morticia before, and he can barely control the excitement that starts to feed his arousal as he takes in her barely-there curves under plain blue underwear, her small breasts that barely filled her matching blue bra. 

**“Act five will now begin.”**

Morticia jolts at the announcement and her eyes dart everywhere around the room, specifically avoiding the Rick with the busted face. Her fearful glance rests on him only briefly before darting to the crowd, and her thighs squeeze together as if that could hide her near nudity in front of the large audience. She folds her arms around herself to further hide, but Velvet is having none of that, sneaking up on her with a short dagger and an arm around her waist as he urges her to pleasure herself with the gentle point of a knife. She shudders back a sob and unwinds her arms, reaching a hand down into her underwear, struggling to keep her legs apart as she rubs between her lips and across her clit, her trembling fingers giving her no encouragement.

TC-99 takes his cue and starts vigorously stroking himself to a full erection, but a peek at the Rick at his side proved he didn’t need to be so intense; He had barely lifted his head, much less his hands. This has him slowing his pace a little, shifting his attention back to Morticia and appreciating her soft curves. The blade is tenderly dragged across her arm, then over her belly to her hips, where it cuts the sides of her underwear with a quick flash of silver. She squeals and halts her fingers, but the edge of the blade against her belly convinces her to continue, and the quiver of her thighs has him huffing excitedly.

**“VS472, please participate or face termination.”**

The crowd above begins to get restless after this announcement, despite the show proceeding on stage, and they start throwing their drinks in their uproar, raining glass and champagne down across his competition, some of the glass getting lodged in his shins. He curses, his fast approaching orgasm cut short by sharp splintering pain. Morticia starts to call out, to step forward, but a hand on her shoulder stops her. Behind her, Velvet is offering a smile as he nods towards the defeated man, cooing something in her ear as he pulls her against his chest. Rick wants to continue stroking himself as he watches the scene play out, begging his body to cooperate so he can go back to his cell. 

**“VS472, please participate or face termination; Final warning,”** The voice is barely heard over the clamor of the crowd.

Velvet swiftly drags the blade along Morticia’s thighs, leaving a scarlet trail in its wake, causing her to shy away, but he had her by the hair, and he is in her ear, whispering urgently, convincing her to carry on. The Rick beside him starts to cry out, having finally looked up at Morticia's cries, begging for her freedom, pleading for mercy for at least her, which elicits the crowd above to jeer at him, mocking his weakness. He can only watch him carry on for so long before his own sliver of sympathy runs out and he finds himself rolling his eyes at the display.

Irritated, he looks back to the stage just in time to see the absolute waterfall gushing out of Morticia’s neck, the rabid screams of her Rick swallowed up by the applause and joyous shouts from their spectators above them. TC-99 can only focus on the growing puddle painting the stainless steel platform, pooling to the drain as he listens to the Rick scream and scream as if anyone in that room, anyone in the multiverse, cared to listen. He never sees his competition perish, thankfully, but instead listens the screams turn to gurgles, then silence, with the ever present noise of the crowd above. He is announced as the winner for this round somewhere in the background, but he barely hears that, too focused on the crimson pool still running towards the drain.

He’s seen a lot of blood and a lot of death in his life, and he has considered himself pretty hardened to the reality of it all, as most Ricks are, but these last few days of endless gore have started to wear down his barely there resolve. Caught between a gut wrenching demise and a life of nonconsensual orgasm, he wonders how hard he would have to hit his head against the floor to kill himself. Suicide has truly never seemed so glamorous until this moment, honestly.

A hand on his shoulder startles him from his dark thoughts, and he looks up to find Velvet Rick, who has slipped into the room at some point and right up behind him, smiling serenely as he grips his shoulder tight. He nods towards his legs, where the glass shards have been forgotten, burrowed deep into his shins. “We can take care of that during this short intermission,” he says, “Since this was a quick round, we’ll take care of this for you before you head back to your dorm.” He is waving over a nurse now, pointing out the obvious injuries and slinging an arm around his shoulders as they both watch the nurse clean up his wounds, carefully pulling glass from flesh with a delicate precision. Velvet Rick’s low growl revealing just how much he is enjoying every painful twitch coming from the man beneath him.

“You’ve done so well so far,” he whispers, close enough to his ear that his lips are grazing his skin, and the sensation has his stomach flopping with an emotion he can't pin down. Velvet loosens his grip on his shoulder and slides a warm hand down his arm, soothing the chills that sprang up and he feels so, so stupid for leaning into him. He tries to distract himself by watching the nurse’s hands work instead, no longer feeling the jagged scrape of glass across his flesh. 

“He’s really taken a liking to you, you know,” Velvet Rick speaks again, pulling him from his hyperfocus on the hands that are touching him. He hums his confusion, unsure who he is referring to and equally unsure as to how to respond to the statement anyways. Velvet points ahead, past the stage where clean up is underway to his grandson, who stands watching them with his jaw clenched tight. When he catches them staring back he can't help but feel more exhausted than ever just remembering the kid is there, so he averts his gaze to the clean up instead.

“When will this end...” the words are tumbling out of his mouth without him realizing it is even he himself who spoke. The man behind him chuckles darkly and rubs more soothing circles against his arm.

“Aww, looking for an out already?” He responds, as if he hasn’t been through the wildest, most degrading few days of his life. He opens his mouth to respond but Velvet cuts him off, “Hypothetical question, hush. Look, don’t get discouraged, you’re pretty close to the end, buddy.”

“The...end?”

“Mmhmm, and since my Velvet over there likes you so much you may just get lucky when this is all over,” he continues, finally removing his ever present hands and shooing away the nurse so he can come to face him. “You just have to keep being a good boy, ok? You really are doing _so_ good. Now...” when he trails off he pulls a syringe from his pocket, waving it gently, “Time for you to get a little rest hmm?” 

TC-99 can only whine in response, not quite ready to fall back into a deathless sleep, or rather, not quite ready to have to start this brutal show over again. The man before him is all smiles and soft coos as he administers the bitter dose and it only takes a few seconds before his eyes slip shut and his head falls back. 

His dreams are only a few seconds of chaotic overflow, a blurred, blue and bleeding mess, before he is roused to wakefulness again, this time with gooey soft fingertips that are patting him awake across his forehead and cheekbones. Gentle taps on his lips are what finally pull his exhausted eyes open, not completely startled to meet the familiar honey stare. Velvet Morty stares hard as if trying to throw his thoughts across the thin gap between their faces while his tapping fingers take rest on his cheeks. The lights dim and blink briefly and the voice of the announcer calls over a speaker.

**“Act three...begin shortly...place...”**

A smile crawls across Velvet Morty’s face before he finally breaks eye contact, backing away and retreating towards the stage. Instead of his usual pristine attire, the boy is dressed in bloodstained scrubs, a scarlet trail leading down his arms to end in dripping, sticky fingers. The same fingers that were just dancing across his face and eyes, his lips. His whole face feels hot and damp where Morty’s hands once were and he reminds himself not to lick his lips and tries to pull himself together to take a look around the room, ignoring the possessive painting that decorated his face.

Looking at his competition first he can see the still sleeping Morty, neck bent at an awkward angle in his chair as he is roused awake by Velvet Rick with a foot to his crotch, grinding sticky shoes playfully against his dick in one moment, and squishing painfully the next. The Morty shudders awake, pulling in a gasp before screeching out his discomfort, Velvet Rick’s soft laughter is almost drowned out by his cries. Next, he peers at the stage where a woozy Rick sits, barely propped up with one arm chained to the floor as he watches almost lovingly as Velvet Morty wraps his other arm just above the elbow with thin, tight rope. Following the trail of gore, Rick catches the neat cross-section of meat and bone, thighs butchered and oozing as tiny micro-bots work to cauterize the expanse of flesh. Realization of the theme of today's performance crashes over him as his eyes whip to the scarlet stained saw on the floor, the surgical cart full of miscellaneous tools, the bizarrely fond smile the Rick gives to his mock surgeon.

 **“Act three will now begin.”**

Conditioned to react, his cock gives a stir despite his mind's panic response, and the fear and adrenaline blends well with his sudden arousal. On the stage, he watches as Velvet Morty ruminates over his sharp tools, all slick and stained already. TC-99 has managed to ignore his competition until now, who has been steadily sobbing over the horror in the stage when his protests reach a fever pitch, and he is silenced with a sharp slap from a guard close by. He gives one more cry and swallows his next sob, shying away from the still raised hand. 

Rick returns his attention to the stage, where Velvet Rick is peering over Morty’s shoulder, splattered scrubs complementing his grandson’s in a macabre fashion statement. He points to a scalpel, well used and bright red, then to a cleaver, shiny and untouched. The details of this escape TC-99 though as all he can see is pointing and the muddled shapes of unknown instruments. Velvet Morty chooses his tool, the scalpel, and wastes no time delicately tracing the tip in an imperfect circle around his victim’s forearm below his elbow. Barely stifled groans tumbled from the patient Rick’s lips, hips bucking as he watched the flesh and fat zipper apart, revealing tendon and muscle twitching under artificial candlelight. The crowd above, normally voicing their pleasure, is watching on in enraptured silence

Surprised at the arousal of the Rick on the stage, he vaguely wondered what kind of uppers they slipped him before the performance to elicit this sort of reaction, longing for a similar stimulant. His hands are already fumbling around his half-hard dick,watching Velvet play surgeon, absolutely enamored, fingering the split in the flesh to elicit delicious groans from his victim, his half-lidded gaze focused on the spill of fresh blood as it squelched around his prying hands. Rick twisted his hand around his cock, pumping himself faster at Morty’s morbid fascination, a rough groan falling from parted lips.

At the sound of his voice, those holy honey orbs locked with his own feverish gaze and Morty pushes back on his patient's chest, easing him to the steel floor with one hand, and holding out the other to his Rick, who passes the cleaver without a word. On the floor, the mangled Rick is quivering in excitement, a twisted smile glued to his face as he never takes his eyes off the thick, sharp blade. Tender hands grip gently at the patient’s arm, and the tip of the knife is positioned at an angle with the floor, lining the blade as close to his initial incision as he can, ghosting the thin edge against the skin. Velvet flicks his eyes back to him, then his competitor, and finally back to him, a subtle smirk ghosting over his lips as he raises his arm, preparing his strike.

And maybe it was the adrenaline, the anticipation of the looming chop. Maybe it was the covetous gleam in that piercing stare that tipped him over. Whatever it was has him releasing into his palm, surprising everyone with an early winner to the round. This, however, doesn’t stop performance on the stage, and Velvet is beaming like a proud parent when he swings his arm down hitting his target perfectly, and using the palm of his other hand to drive the cleaver through meat and stubborn bone. Untouched orgasm rocked through the now one-armed Rick as his guttural shout reverberated in his chest. Clear agony colored his fading exhilaration, reaching his arm out for something, someone, but was ignored as a swarm of microbots worked on his wound instead. Velvet grabbed the discarded limb, launching it with unprecedented force up to the balcony, where a ravenous crowd bickered over the prize like a wedding bouquet.

**“Our act three winner is TC-99, act four will begin in thirty minutes.”**

The buzz of his orgasm fades and he tunes into the pitiful weeping of his competitor, who he has forgotten about until now. His vision shifts, blurry and black around the edges as his body attempts to claim exhaustion and slide into the bliss of darkness, already awaiting his blacked out trip back to his cell. The mottled outline of Velvet approaches that evening’s loser, the glint of his cleaver snapping his eyes back to focus. Weeping turns to panicked squealing as he prowls closer and TC-99 can’t stop himself from taking in every detail of the wide arc of his arm and the precision of his strike as the blade sank horizontally into the Morty’s eyes, crushing the bridge of his nose and cratering his skull around hardened steel, a valley of gushing ichor around splintered bone.

His stomach no longer recoiles at the gruesome spray that painted Velvet and somewhere in the back of his mind were the alarm bells, but a stoic guard has already started to loosen his restraints as another approaches with a needle and he decides he won’t think about it for a while. Afterall, he was so close to the end right? 

When TC-99 awakens again from another dreamless sleep, someone is hovering over him, outlined by white light that swallows up the rest of the room, and he tries to blink around the fluorescence to clear his vision but that just wipes the scene clean, revealing the dirty grey ceiling of his dorm room. Several seconds pass as he scans the ceiling, hoping to bring back maybe even a hint of the scene before he lets loose all the air he's had trapped in his lungs since he awoke and he lets himself just lay there, blank stare glued to the ceiling and relishing in his few waking moments away from that stage.

Wakefulness, though, is only peaceful for a few moments before his internal conflict kicks back up, mental vision painted ripe red with the last thing he saw before falling asleep and he recoils, waving his hands as if to clear the image from his mind. He glances back to the floor and again considers the force he would have to exert to cleanly and quickly break his skull.

His eyes slip closed involuntarily, only for a moment, but in that moment it feels like he is falling, sucked down by gravity into a void, and his body is reacting before he can think. He snaps up, leaning unsteadily on one elbow as he gasps over the edge of the bed, nearly sending him onto the floor as he struggles to regain control of his body and brain. With a rumble of his stomach, poorly timed and intense, he shakes off the heart palpitations and hunger pains and looks around to see if he had slept through dinnertime, finding his discarded dinner rations on the floor near the glass wall, having fallen from its portal and rolled almost flush against the dangerous barrier.

He stood, brittle joints popping through the sleeping crowd around him as he got up. Reaching down to grab the bottle, something stops him before he picks it up. The quiet around him was much more deafening than usual; even the snores of his neighbors seemed swallowed up by something he couldn't identify. He backs away to get a better look around himself, accidentally kicking his rations, which went rolling gently across the invisible barrier unharmed. Rick, in his surprise, opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to voice his confusion. Cautiously he toed at the barrier until his entire foot was placed firmly on the other side, and he stands like that for what seems like forever, listening intently for the sound of guards or sirens, for footsteps or shouts....anything that would tell him that this is a trap or a horrible mistake. When the silence persists and he is confident he is in the clear, he hops across the barrier, into the small halo of light from the bulb above, glancing around him to see if he has disturbed anyone around him. 

_There's no way this is happening,_ he thinks as he tip-toes down the hall, passing dozens of prisoners in identical cages, in identical poses, in identical beats of breath. There are no cell numbers, no identifying markers or where he is, only the stark division of Ricks and Mortys, and he wonders how they organize anything around here. He comes to a wall, where he can turn left or right, but both options are the exact same tunnel of prisoners. Choosing left at random, he continues to walk until he comes to another corner, another option for a pathway and another row of prisoners. Peeping into the cells he can barely discern the silhouette of the bodies from the creeping shadows, cursing as his degenerative vision fails him. He stops walking, absorbing the silence around him for a few moments, basking in the moment and pointedly ignoring the dread that was growing within him. This beat of silence is soon broken by a shuffle nearby and he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to catch the flash of a yellow shirt darting around the corner. 

_Am I dreaming?_ He sighs, feeling as if he shouldn't take this obvious bait, but if someone else got out of their cell then maybe they could team up, or at the very least talk. Jogging to catch up, he rounds the corner and almost runs right into the kid, who is standing in the middle of the hallway with a hollow, dilated stare. 

“Kid, w-what the fuck,” he yelps, voice echoing down the corridor and he pulls up short of a full on collision. The exclamation seems to reset the boy, snapping him out of his daze and allowing a smile to creep across his face seconds before he backs away, turning sprint down the hallway. He doesn't give him the chance to get too far ahead, taking off after the kid as soon as he starts to run, but the kid is _fast_ , little legs rocketing him around corners, leaving Rick and his long legs somehow still several steps behind. They sprint like that for several minutes, pushing him to his limits as his old lungs scream with overuse, and he finally decides this chase isn’t worth it, and honestly doesn't know why he decided it was good to follow anyways.

_Goddamn I must really be getting dumber the longer I stay here._

He sinks into a crouch for a minute to catch his breath when he hears footsteps, and he assumes it's the kid, back to see why he stopped following him, so he stays where he is, still gasping from his impromptu run. When polished black boots enter his field of vision however, he holds his breath, and slowly cranes his neck up to lock eyes with the delighted grin of a guard. For some reason, he didn't think this would be a possibility, so he mutely stares back. The eye contact sets the man off and with no warning he kicks his boot straight up into his jaw with plenty enough force to knock a few teeth loose. Still reeling, he is callously hoisted up and over the guards shoulder, carried off to god knows where, spitting blood and teeth on the floor the whole time. The floor spun beneath him as he was carried through several doorways and soon dumped into that oh so familiar strapped chair.

**“Act five will begin shortly. Please finish placing your bets.”**

The phrase was far away, echoed across miles as leather straps are wrapped tight around his wrists first, then his legs and Rick feels a bubble of panic starts to rise in his chest, bursting at his mouth with a jumble of rushed words and cries, earning him a sharp slap across the face, shaking a few more teeth loose. He lets out a whimper in an attempt to bury his panic and pain and tries to slow his hyperventilating before the round starts, letting the blood dribble down his chin and throat. 

Amongst his panicked gasps and low ring in his ear, he can pick out the clear, impish giggles, discernable amongst the normal chatter of the room. He rolls his head up to find Velvet sprawled in his chair, formal demeanor abandoned as he hikes one leg over the arm of the chair to show off the prominent bulge in his too-tight culottes. 

Uncomfortable with the way he tries to hold his stare, Rick looks away to his competition to see an over eager Rick, already awake and grinning like a madman. He offers him a suave wiggle of his eyebrows and a wink before the lights blink, and the announcer is back to kick off the start of the round. Behind a frail cot in the center of the stage, a portal opens and a guard steps out, holding a fragile looking Morty in his arms, sending hushed gasps through the crowd above. The guard lowers him to the ground and Rick can see that he's not just fragile looking but so tiny, and when the guard clasps large hands around his shoulders to turn him around the Rick beside him lets out an excited gasp as the crowd above chatters excitedly. This Morty couldn’t be older than eight, maybe younger, _fuck_ , all Mortys looked so small he could be as young as five, dressed only in illfitting frilly undies, and that finally sent his panic spiking again. 

He pierces Velvet with his panicked glare, spitting more blood on the floor before he speaks, “What the fuck, what the fuck is this! I don’t- I’m not doing this!” Velvet's only response is to shrug flippantly before pointing back to the stage where the guard has slipped a hand over the boy's underwear, forcing warbled wimpers from his lips as he tries to feebly push his hands away. The chatter above him gets louder and he swears he hears his dimension number being thrown around and he dares not to look up at them as he swallows the last of his dignity and reaches for his dick, hoping to avoid being called out over the speaker. Even well trained conditioning cannot stir him as he tries to pump some sort of life into his flaccid cock. Peeking back at Velvet and ignoring the stage entirely he catches him palming at his crotch and staring straight at the Rick at his side.

A beat of jealousy and pooled in his stomach along with arousal as he watched Velvet unbutton his shorts slowly, deliberately, all while never looking his way. His competitor however was oblivious, hungry gaze drinking in the scene on stage, the boy and guard now stripped completely and the boy is trying his hardest to hide himself from the dozens of eyes on him. The guard was gentle as he picked him up again, gentle when he set him down on the bed, gentle as he crawled on top of him; rained with soft touches and the boy still shudders and cries. This only makes it harder for him to participate, but his competitor seemed to really be pacing himself, drooling over every whimper and timing his strokes to make this last as long as he wanted it to. TC-99 however was only participating at a technicality, as he loosely palmed his barely interested erection. How bad would it be, really, to forfeit and finally put an end to this? 

**“TC-99, please resume or face termination”** He jolts, not realizing he had stopped moving.

All eyes were back on him now, having disrupted the flow of the scene on stage, even the guard shoots him an ugly look as he is three fingers deep into his shotafied grandson. In a panic, Rick quickly pumps his cock a few times as a show of good faith, appeasing the crowd long enough to not throw their glasses at him. Beside him, his competitor laughs.

Velvet abandons his chair, leaving his pants unbuttoned, and closes in on the couple, rushing over to the boy to pull his hands away from his face, revealing blotchy, red eyes and tear stained cheeks. Velvet leans down to whisper something to the boy but this only makes him panic more, the guard having to grab his ankles as he kicks dangerously close to sensitive material. With one hand, Velvet holds both of the boys wrists in a vice grip and he lets the other pet its way across his face, wiping away his tears that never stopped flowing. Foreplay is short lived and the guard impatiently shoves the boy's legs back, folding him in half while he drizzles lube across his cock, pulled from Velvet's pocket for convenience. 

TC-99 violently does not want to watch as the boy is penetrated, slowly and painfully, sending screeching cries through the theater, exciting patrons and guards alike to crowd closer around the banister for a better look. He watches Velvet instead, who coos over the boy, drinking in the anguish he leaks through his sobs and petting his soft curls in a pseudo act of comfort. 

A gasp, then stuttered laughter, and the Rick beside him cums thick and heavy across his chest and palm. Velvet doesn’t look surprised when he looks up from his loving gaze at the boy to see the mess made by his competitor. He offers a small smile and nods to the guard to continue, who picked up his punishing pace and chased his own orgasm. 

**“Our act five winner is L-7λ. This is the end of our performance for tonight, please collect your winnings and exit before the end of the hour.”**

His incessant suicidal ideation was not prepared to meet the reality of his demise so soon, despite the clear path this act was taking. Upon hearing the announcement his body reacted with hot, panicked tears, his body like concrete as he settled further into his seat. He keeps his head down low as Velvet’s footsteps dance their way towards him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see what sort of end he has planned for him. Those deceivingly soft fingertips smooth across his face and he is lifted to face Velvet completely, his eyes gently pried open. Instead of golden honey he met pitch black orbs, his pupils consuming his entire eyes as he pried his mouth open with those once gentle fingers, digging his nails in deep as they crawl their way back. He feels him grip around his tongue before he tugs hard, shredding the muscle to pieces as he tugs it out of his mouth. It's sharp and hot agony, something he's never felt before and he is screeching even as he inhales and the smell of rust and rot catches in his mangled throat. This was not as quick and painless as he had hoped, far far from it actually and he choked and sputtered around the blood that pooled in his throat.

He wonders if the blood loss or the gory asphyxiation will kill him first, just before his vision starts to fade at the edges, first slowly, then all at once, overtaking everything in stark darkness. The noise around him blended together into a pleasant buzz that too eventually faded out. The throb in his mouth was the last thing to die out, the pain persistent as it tries to follow him to death.

With the setting of the sun came the bitter chill of the night and Scruffy Morty shivered as he tucked himself deeper into TC-99, their threadbare clothes not quite enough to keep out the cold. They leeched off each other's meager body heat in silence, shuddered breaths and chattering teeth the only distraction from the cold. TC-99 watches himself from above and from inside, both at once and he remembers too clearly every single minute he's had with this Morty. Every overdose and bender, every euphoric high and every aching low of the few short weeks they shared flooded his memory, playing like a movie that led up to this one pivotal point. He watches as the kid slips a few more pills before wrapping his arms back around him. He watches as they shiver themselves to sleep and he watches as only he wakes up as the sunlight pours into the alleyway. 

He wraps his arms tight around himself to replace the feeling of stiff, mannequin arms that still ghosted their way around him. So clearly he can feel the absolute gut wrenching sorrow as he pried those arms off and shoved the cold body away, and ran.

“Rise and shine TC, honey” the warm voice is a sharp contrast to the cold smack he receives in the second following. His eyes fly open and he tries to shout, but finds his mouth stuffed with spongy wet gauze and the exertion of it causes the pain to reignite, sending fire down his spine. He tries to lift an arm to claw at his face but only panics deeper when the paralyzed limb does not respond. His whole body, in fact, does not respond, frozen under the heavy influence of anesthesia. Velvet Morty hovers over him and shushes him gently, watching his frantic eyes dart around the room, “Oh hush, you’re fine. Just try to relax, you made it to the end, it’s almost over now.”

He wants so badly to believe him, to believe that this torture would end.

“You’ve played so nicely, you know, right from the start. A good, obedient Rick,” he says with a sinister smile as he circles around the bed he lies on. He doesn't even notice their nudity until Velvet is hopping on to the bed with him, crawling over his legs until he sits in a straddle around his thighs, the skin absolutely burning where it connects. “You know most everyone else, especially you Ricks, fight the whole time, from start to finish, but not you,” he says, gazing at him under heavy lashes, “that's why I like you TC-99.” 

Velvet reaches up, ghosting his hand across his hips and belly and pounding chest, to push his fingers into the mess of crimson gauze that blocked his mouth. He pulls out the mass of cotton, dripping pink and red all down his delicate hand, giving it a good squeeze to really coat his palm with gore. He discards the cotton on the floor and reaches down, tracing wet fingertips through Rick’s messy pubic hair before sensually dragging them across his cock. Velvet wastes no time pumping those sticky fingers, mirroring the exact way he is used to pleasuring himself, and he is unwillingly, embarrassingly hard in a matter of seconds. His groan gurgles as it passes through his mangled mouth.

“Mmm, see! Such a good boy,” He finds himself preening under this praise, “If you keep being such a good boy, I might just help you forget all about that dirty Morty that’s always on your mind.” At this, Rick feels guilty, because he _had_ forgotten about him, at least a little, tucking away all his memories of him so he wouldn't have to face the kid’s untimely death ever again. The weight of this guilt has him softening under Velvet’s touch and he catches this change straight away and he rolls his eyes, “See this is what I mean, let’s just not think about it ok?” 

He slows the hands around Rick’s cock and inches his way closer on his knees until he is positioned right over the head, he uses one hand to steady himself while he slowly sinks down on his dick. The sudden, tight heat is enough to send bolts of pleasure up his spine, and he is sure if he wasn’t paralyzed he would be bucking up into the boy, his hips already twitching with the strain to react. He closes his eyes and soaks up the arousal and Velvet wastes no time pleasuring himself, slowly setting the pace for them both with a light bounce of his ass. 

“So, here’s what's gonna happen,” Velvet starts, keeping his voice even as he moves, “We’re gonna transfer that pretty little personality of yours into a body that’s not quite so...” he trails off, waving his hand towards his distorted face, “messy. And then, my sweet pet, you’re going upstairs to be one of my favorites.” 

Robbed of his voice and paralyzed, TC-99 can only use his eyes to express his bewilderment. He wants to ask what kind of lame ass clone body swapping episode this is, to push away from the intoxicating heat that only pulls him closer, but he can only manage a feeble shake of his head and an even weaker cry of protest. Velvet only smiles back at him, pressing himself closer to soak himself in the distressed energy that pours off of him and sliding one hand to press tenderly to his throat. The pressure is light at first, but as Velvet picks up his pace grinding harder and faster, the pressure picks up intensity, and soon his windpipe is being crushed, walls pinched tight against each other. Velvet watches lovingly as his face changes from red to purple to blue and coos gently at the blood vessels in his eyes starting to burst from the pressure. He palms at his own cock and holds Rick’s dying stare until the light finally dies from his eyes, finally pushing him over the edge of orgasm, coming haphazardly across the corpse underneath him.

Fully satiated, Velvet climbs off his victim and reaches for a towel he had stashed nearby and dries himself off before slipping into a silk robe, pulling a portal gun from the pocket and firing at the wall. His Rick greets him on the other side with a nod before leading him back to TC-99’s new body, freshly activated and already blinking awake.

“Now that wasn't so bad was it?” Velvet asks, making his presence known loudly and startling him further awake. His breath hitches in his throat and his eyes dart from the Velvet pair in the doorway to the plush bedding he was seated upon to the unfamiliar warm tones of the small room he has woken up in.

“Did...did I die?” he asks, hands starting to tremble as the still clear memories of just minutes ago come racing back and he attempts to backtrack to what led him here. Before this room was his dreamlike death, and before that was the theater, and before that was…well he couldn't actually say. The echoes of the last few days were so vivid, yet anything past that is murky, and muddled and not entirely his own.

Velvet hums and shrugs, “Who knows. Just don’t think about it, pet.” He comes closer to lay a gentle hand on his face, pulling his frantic eyes back to him, “You can relax for a little while now sweet thing. I’ve got a few other things to get to, so this is goodnight for now. You,” he pauses to grip his jaw, “should get some rest. You’ve earned it.” It is much less of a suggestion than a command and Rick shrinks back into the bedding with a nod, earning him a beaming smile from Velvet in return. When they are gone and he can finally wrap himself up in silence and silky sheets and try hopelessly to embrace sleep under the assault of morbid memories and tells himself that this is his new normal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> This fic was made possible by the this year's RnM Mini Bang event (and our wonderful admin Liebe), Kowai's delightful support, and the mess that is 2020.


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